forgotten, and revive under the influence of the theater and the
roar of life. It was during one of these excursions, while Joan was
lunching with Alice Palgrave, that she caught an arrow shot at
random by that mischievous little devil Cupid, which landed plum in
the middle of a heart that had been placid so long. In getting out
of a taxicab she had slipped and fallen, was raised deferentially to
her feet, and looked up to catch the lonely and bewildered eyes of
George Harley. They were outside their mutual hotel. What more
natural and courteous than that he should escort her into the hotel
with many expressions of anxious regret, ascend with her in the
elevator to their mutual floor, linger with her for a polite few
minutes in the sunlight that poured through the passage windows and
leave her to hurry finally to her room thrilling under the
recollection of two admiring eyes and a lingering handshake? She,
even she, then, at her time of life, plump and partridge-like as she
was, could inspire the interest and approval of a man. It was
wonderful. It was absurd. It was . . . altogether too good to be
true! Later, after she had spent a half-amused, half-wistful quarter
of an hour in front of her glass, seeing inescapable white hairs and
an irremediable double chin, she had gone down to the dining room
for lunch. All the tables being occupied, what more natural or
disconcerting than for this modern Raleigh to rise and rather
clumsily and eagerly beg that she would share the one just allotted
to himself.

To the elderly man, whose nose had been too close to the grindstone
to permit of dalliance, and who now, monied and retired, found
himself terribly alone in the pale sun of St. Martin's Summer, and
to the little charming woman of forty, led back to life by an ardent
and impetuous girl, this quite ordinary everyday incident, which